Strike First Strike Hard No Mercy
by naggeluide
Summary: Zuko's Agni Kai with Zhao, in the AU you didn't know you needed. Admiral Zhao is poised to swoop in and take the dojo - everything that Zuko and Sensei Iroh have worked so hard for these past two years. But Zuko refuses to give it all up without a fight. Strike first. Strike hard. No mercy. … Zuko can't do it. Cross-posted from AO3.
1. Chapter 1

_Strike first. Strike hard. No mercy._ The motto played in Zuko's mind like a mantra, breath wrestling the rage within from fury to focus.

He was not going to lose this fight. He was not going to lose the dojo, and above all he was not going to let Sensei Iroh down.

Iroh, who didn't want to let Zuko fight, didn't want to see him hurt. But maybe he had somewhere to go if they lost the dojo, something else to keep the demons at bay. Zuko had nothing else. He had his mother, barely - Ursa had taken him and fled when Ozai, perfectly sober for once, had calmly pulled a log from the family hearth and set his son's face on fire.

She hadn't been able to save Azula, and it had torn her apart. She was a nurse by training, but after that she could only stomach the administrative work. Lab reports and screening results didn't scream and beg for mercy.

Over here they looked foreign, different, and Zuko hated coming back to a silent, empty apartment after school. So one day he rode his bike down to the harbor, lied about his age in two languages, and got a job collecting shipping manifests for the harbormaster. The rise and fall of the tide was calming, as were the rhythms of his own language among the others; still, the docks, they said, were no place for a boy. Zuko didn't care.

Then he had met Sensei Iroh. At first he had just been the crazy, washed up neighbor who was always throwing his used tea leaves in the garbage instead of the compost, until one day he'd seen the group of teenagers beating up on a boy with a scarred face and a ponytail who just wouldn't stay down. Iroh had spoken a few quiet words, shifted his weight a few times to send the attackers careening into the ground by their own momentum, and applied two precise strikes. The old man had just nodded when Zuko insisted he was fine, and walked him back home, waiting until the boy got up the courage to beat down his pride and ask, timidly, if Iroh would teach him. _Never give up without a fight_: it was how Zuko lived, but he needed to know a better way to fight.

He heard some whispers, while training with Sensei Iroh. That he'd been the Dragon of the West, in this valley, but now he was broken. Zuko didn't know what that meant, the first part, although he certainly knew about the second. And he knew that Sensei was good; some days, Zuko might work himself sick, or relapse and flinch at every strike coming in from his left, but at the end of the day, they'd drink hot leaf juice and talk about home in cryptic phrases, what that meant and why they couldn't go back. Iroh had shown him a photograph one day, deep into his cups of tea, of a young man that could have been Zuko's cousin, they looked so alike. Sensei had called him nephew, in a moment of sorrow or forgetfulness, and Zuko had called him _Uncle_ in return, and now it was always what he called Iroh outside of training, and it meant more to Zuko than _Father_.

Maybe Zuko should have paid better attention to the whispers. He'd been completely unprepared when Zhao had showed up.

Zhao was a ghost from Uncle's past, something about a war, back when Iroh had been a different man, when he'd never lost a battle. Before he had lost so much. Now Zhao was threatening to take the dojo, take Iroh's students, and Zuko was not going to let that happen. He and Sensei Iroh had worked for three years to get to where they were now; they had students, they had direction, and they were _winning_.

Zuko knew how to fight, now. And he still wasn't giving up. But Iroh... maybe Iroh had. Maybe the past was too much for any one man to shoulder, and that was why Iroh had said no, but not done anything except sip the ginseng tea Zhao served them, and for once he looked old, and so very tired.

Zuko couldn't take it, how Zhao was telling Iroh he'd failed, how he could never compete with Zhao, how he had no home, no allies. But he'd been raised not to insult his host, no matter how unhospitable they were being.

Zhao turned to Zuko next. _Your own father doesn't want you. You have the scar to prove it._

Something broke inside, and a wash of red drowned out everything, drowning that small voice of _how does he even know?_ in a wave of pure fury.

"Maybe you'd like one to match!"

"Is that a challenge?" the older man growled, disdainfully.

Zuko didn't hesitate. "Yes. For the dojo."

_Agni Kai._

_I won't let you take it._


	2. Chapter 2

It had begun like any other training day. Cycle to the dojo. Walk through the entrance with the painted red symbol of a flame edged with gold, and the black characters underneath declaring its name: _Agni Kai_. Leave his shoes in the cabinet. Change into the sleeveless dark crimson gi, tie it closed with the gold belt. Tie his shaggy hair back with a black headband (that ponytail might have worked down at the harbor, but it really hadn't done him any favors with the girls at school). Go through his warm-up routine, focusing on the fire within, tuning out Zhao's attempt at mind games.

The dojo was empty, save for the three of them and Zhao's second, a seedy-looking character who went by Lieutenant and had brought in a cheap-looking gong for the occasion.

Zuko knelt in front of his sensei, breathing, visualizing.

"Remember your basics, Zuko. They are your greatest weapons," Iroh said, looking down at his student. The basics: breath control, balance, stance.

_Fear does not exist in this dojo._

A curt nod, fire in his voice as he stood to bow to his opponent. "I refuse to let him win."

If it was possible to bow sarcastically, Zhao did it. "This will be over quickly."

The gong sounded.

Zuko struck first. A flurry of punches, hard and fast, to the throat, the solar plexus, the groin. Zhao dodged, blocked and smirked. The older man stood strong in a horse stance, and started firing off punches that Zuko couldn't hope to match for power. He forced Zuko back out of range, and blocked his lunging strike with an easy swirl of fists.

Well, that result hadn't been wholly unexpected. Sensei had told him that Zhao was a master. Time to switch tactics. Zuko was young, agile, and flexible. The way of the fist hadn't come as naturally to his body type as the way of the well-placed kick.

Zuko led with a right roundhouse, then twirled for a back kick from his left. Zhao swept away the first strike and brought up crossed arms to block the second, more deadly, follow-up. The old commander took advantage of Zuko's momentum, carrying him back around from the kick, and sliced a bladed hand for the teenager's throat. Zuko's good eye widened and he let himself sway back a fraction, barely avoiding the strike.

He immediately went back on the offensive, blending a front kick to the nose with a hook kick aimed for the kidney. Zhao dodged, dropping underneath the hook in an instant, arms sweeping out to attack Zuko's stance.

Zuko skipped over the fists and fell back, out of range, to a fighting stance. Zhao straightened and to match him.

"Basics, Zuko! Break his root!" Zuko heard, over the breath and rage he was still controlling, although only just.

A step brought Zhao back into punching range with his longer arms, and now his whole weight and power was behind them. Simple moves; _the basics_, they said, mocking, to Zuko. Step and punch; step and punch, from a stance that was rock-solid. Zuko could only retreat and hope that his blocks would be enough.

A twin-fisted punch slammed past his guard, and the world sparked white for an instant.

_Pain does not exist in this dojo._

He was on the ground, ribs screaming in agony. Zuko ignored it; Zhao was already on the move again, leg sweeping up for an ax kick that aimed to descend on his face with bone-breaking force.

No time to think; just move. Zuko inhaled, gathered his arms underneath him, tightened his core against pain, and kicked up with both legs.

_Basics. Stance._ Zhao's weight was a fraction too high off his foot to be grounded. _Break his root. _

_Sweep the leg._

Body raised over his supporting hand, Zuko lashed in a low feint to Zhao's rear leg, catching the descending kick with the trailing leg, sweeping the blow sideways and taking Zhao's balance with it. The commander crashed to the ground, and Zuko jumped back to a solid, two-footed stance, smirking. He could taste victory.

Zhao was barely back on his feet before Zuko's advance pushed him back, struggling for balance so he could launch another attack. Relentless, Zuko kept coming with kick after kick. In an instant he found the opening, landing a solid kick to the solar plexus that sent Zhao gasping back a body length. Lightning fast, Zuko followed up with a hop sidekick that took his enemy down.

_Defeat does not exist in this dojo._

He'd done it. He'd won. But he hadn't finished it yet.

_No mercy. _

_"Do it!" _Zhao snarled at him from the mat, gasping.

Zuko's eyes narrowed as he gathered his energy, aimed the heel strike with deadly position. _No mercy._

Zuko … couldn't do it.

His heel crashed into the mat beside the face of the fallen Zhao.

"That's it?" the commander sneered. "Your teacher trained a coward."

Zuko growled in frustration. He didn't know why he'd done it, but he knew he wasn't a coward. Not for refusing to strike a someone who couldn't fight anymore. "Next time you get in our way, I promise," he grit out. "I won't hold back."

Zuko always kept his promises.

He let himself walk away, eyes down, struggling to explain it to himself before he could explain it to Uncle, how he could have done it, he'd wanted to do it, but then … they'd already won. They had the dojo, it was over, and he didn't need to -

Motion. Behind him. Zuko whirled, feeling the rush of air from a furious roundhouse coming straight for -

Uncle was there. Damn, but old guys were fast. Iroh caught Zhao's heel, halting it in midair as easily as one might catch an apple, gently falling from the tree. A flick of the wrist, and Zhao was down again, the force of it sending him rolling away.

Did that bastard just try to - Zuko lunged after him with a yell.

"No, Zuko!" Iroh caught his shoulders just as easily as he'd caught Zhao's attack. "Do not taint your victory."

Uncle's hands on his shoulders damped the flames within to a low smolder. Zuko fought to regain control of his breathing, and stepped back.

Iroh turned to the old soldier lying on the floor. "So this is how the great Commander Zhao acts in defeat? Disgraceful."

Zuko heard the pride in his voice directed his way, even though Sensei was still facing their enemy. "Even in his youth, my nephew is more honorable than you."

Zuko turned away, surprised by the sudden stinging in his eyes. It was probably sweat dripping down, now that he wasn't moving anymore. But Iroh hadn't claimed him as _nephew_ before, not in front of other people. Something about that made Zuko feel warm inside, although that might just as easily have been his sore ribs talking.

"Thanks again for the tea. It was delicious." Iroh's politeness was a clear dismissal of the vanquished commander.

Together, Iroh and Zuko walked back to the sensei's office, and shut the door. A moment later, they heard a pair of stomping feet and muffled curses before the dojo's front door swung open and shut, and then all was silent.

"Did you really mean that, Uncle?" Zuko wiped his face with a towel, then slung it over his shoulder as he reached for the kettle.

"Of course. I told you ginseng tea was my favorite."


End file.
